Patriots’ Day at the Open

Day Three at the Open was a feast for anyone interested in American men’s tennis: a third of the day’s singles featured at least one Yank. Ryan Harrison, an eighteen-year-old from Louisiana beat a Croat, while the twenty-one-year-old Donald Young—the once and maybe future of American tennis—lost in the first round to an unranked Frenchman. Jack Sock, the tournament’s youngest player at seventeen, lost in four sets.

There were two other Americans in one match—Sam Querrey and Bradley Klahn—both from California. National unity was not a concern, it seemed: in the second set, Querrey hit Klahn with an unfortunate shot just below his waistband. Klahn spent several minutes lying on the ground in recovery, a ballboy shading him with an umbrella.

And, then, at night, Andy Roddick, the best American men’s tennis player of the past decade, ran into a Serbian lightning bolt named Janko Tipsarević. Tipsarević played one of the best matches I’ve ever seen in person, stepping into Roddick’s forehands and delivering precise groundstrokes on the run. For every one shot Roddick hit deep, but down the middle of the court, Tipsarević sent two into the corners. Turns out he’s no stranger to beating Americans: he’s knocked off Querrey and Harrison this year, and beat Roddick in the second round at Wimbledon in 2008.

A colleague, Nick Paumgarten, noted that being the best American in any endeavor for the better part of a decade is a remarkable feat. Roddick turned twenty-eight earlier this week, and his career—may it last many more years—should be praised, not questioned.

But sitting high in Arthur Ashe Stadium last night, I wondered aloud with several friends about just why we found ourselves, along with most in the stadium, rooting for Roddick. For me, the answer seemed simple: as in the Olympics, I root American. Everyone agreed. I also ascribe to the “good-of-the-game” theory, that the sport needs its most recognizable players to last deep into the tournament. A friend noted that though he remains one of the half-dozen giants of the game, his “struggles” often make him seem to be a likable underdog.

But here, handed to us on a brightly lit court, was Tipsarević, a true underdog playing the match of his life. He was fiery enough to pump his fist, yet classy enough to hold it frozen in motion rather than flail about, screaming.

Then, down badly in the third set, Roddick threw a temper tantrum over a foot fault (he has an explanation, but it’s too dubious to give it any space), and in a flash lost at least half of the support he had from the twenty thousand or so fans in Arthur Ashe. As his tantrum went on for minutes, rather than seconds, a loud boo rose up, louder than any cheer that night. Of course, a temper is nothing new from Roddick. Often respectful and charming, Roddick has a less sporting side that often seems to come out at the worst possible moments, and we loathed him for it.

Yet by the end of the evening, as our countryman fought through and eventually lost a decisive fourth-set tiebreaker, we were back on his side. This is sport, and the name on the passport still trumps all.